Happy Families

The unbridled torture of a sick child is something I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.  Not even Robbie Williams.

The thing is, he’d seemed so much worse at home. I’d woken at half two to find his tiny heart beating much faster than usual and I could feel his scorching heat, despite being inches away from him in bed.

It’s hard being on your own with a toddler at the best of times.  On a good day I would sit and watch my beautiful boy sleep, and my chest would swell in the deep and profound understanding that I was the luckiest woman in all Christendom. But on the worst days, you had to make terrible decisions, like the impossible feat of determining how ill was too ill.  The truth is any ill is too ill when it’s your baby. But the level of socially recognised seriousness was a difficult thing to gage. The medical profession has a tendency to make you feel like a twat when you bring your kid to hospital, despite their protestations that it’s “…best to make sure.”

I’d been so panicky, I felt unable to drive and had rushed out of the house in need of a shower, without make up and wearing the flip-flops that had been on the shoe rack and seemed easiest to put on with an ill 3 year old in my arms. In November.

As I could have predicted if I’d had someone else to consult with, or an hour’s more kip, the staff at the hospital seemed very underwhelmed by George’s illness and I had the distinct feeling they were probably going to send us home with antibiotics.

Considering George was now playing excitedly with the half-missing jigsaw puzzles in the empty children’s waiting room at nearly quarter to five in the morning, I had an inkling that everything was going to be fine. Thank fuck.

                                                Then in he walked.

I hadn’t seen him since the early stages of pregnancy, and even now I couldn’t bear to look him in the face.

It was just so fucking obvious. He’d come in to an empty children’s waiting room with an elderly man in a flat cap and a perfectly groomed son, who would’ve been George’s age.

My mouth went dry and I lowered my head to focus on my feet in those fucking flip-flops. The red nail polish on my toes was cracked, and my hair was greasy. I just felt so tired and dirty.

I considered scooping George up and running. But I didn’t want to divert any attention to myself. I looked at the children, who’d begun tentatively playing alongside each other. One in his cheap transformers pyjamas, and the other pristine in his designer outfit.

My beautiful George could see the other boy had his arm in a sling, and went to get him a small plastic chair to sit on. The tiny child smiled and sat, and as I watched my perfect boy in his tatty pyjamas, my heart told me that my boy was easily the most pristine of the two brothers.

Lucia Zanetti

The Barber's Reflection

10.30. Why do I start at nine? No point. Apart from Saturdays. Who wants to work on Saturdays. I
don’t. Should have left this game years ago. Abroad. Should have gone abroad. What is there here?
Crap weather and taxes. I never used to mind the weather but I feel it in my bones these days. The
arthritis has definitely got worse in the fingers. Arthritis in the fingers is a bad thing when you cut
hair all day. Should have left this place a long time ago. I feel as scuffed as this floor. Soon be getting
busy now. I hope. Wish it was Saturday. Always busy on a Saturday. If I ever saw that Geldof fella
I’d tell him why I don’t like Mondays. It’s because nobody comes into my bloody shop. I’d read the
paper but I can’t face the same lies by different politicians. The same apologies for the same failings.
Round and round they go. Liars. Should have left this game years ago.
The new lad, Conner, is ok but to him it’s all about “styling” and “body”. Whatever happened to
short back and sides and a moan about how United are doing. I suppose working here will be just a
stepping stone for him. Fair enough. Good luck to him and his future. Maybe before he leaves I can
teach him to clear up when he finishes on a Saturday. That mirror is filthy. Looking at it maybe the
filth is doing me a favour. If it were clean those wrinkles and that chin would be there in glorious
technicolour to remind me in case my memory had forgotten to tell me this morning that I’m getting
older. Getting older faster. I should get away for a while. Ten days, fortnight. Bit of sun. Change
the backdrop as they say. Maybe I’ve still got a bit of spark left. Bit of sun. Be just the job. The heat
would chase that arthritis away for a few days. Blue skies, a few beers. Do me the world of good.
This dinnertime. Get some brochures. Maybe get some new clobber as well. Might even meet a
woman. Women go on holiday don’t they. Course they do daft bugger. Might get along. Not as much
as me and my Val did. But might get along. Would be nice. Bit of company. No harm in that. Bit of
sun, bit of company. No man is an island an all that. And as men aren’t ducks they can’t live on bread
alone. I wonder how much Conner would charge me for some styling. I’ll ask him. After he’s cleaned
the filth off that bloody mirror.

Daniel M.

Next Time Take The Ferry

Thai Fisherman- I take you, I take you, 300Baht.

 Johnny- Alright, where’s your boat? That, that’s a fucking log

 Mark -Oh fuck it Johnny, I’m not staying here another night…

Johnny-Why what’s wrong?

Mark-You yer cunt you were out drinking all night. I woke up with them fucking big horny fucking beetles marching all over me balls!

Johnny- Should have stayed out drinking yer puff.

Thai Fisherman- 300Bhat, I take you.

Mark-Come on Johnny, this place is fucked up you’re still pissed and that fucking Dublin car dealer doing fucking yoga on the beach in the fucking nip is just too fucking weird.

Johnny-Alright but that’s not a fucking boat it’s a fucking tree trunk.

Mark-300Baht, come on then pal.

The two Westerners wade into the sea, the ferry they should have been on chugs on to Ko Samui. It is indeed a log, barely hollowed out, with a propeller on the end of a rod extending out the back. One is drunk the other freaked out from the insects taking a shine to him in his sleep. The ‘phut’ ‘phut’ ‘phut’ of a two stroke coughs into life and the log pushes out to sea.

Thai Fisherman- Big Buddha Beach?

Mark- Yeah sure.

Johnny-Ha,hah,ha….

Mark-Stop fucking rocking it you cunt!

Johnny-What?

Mark-Fuck off, I mean it. Stop it you div.

Soon they are out at sea with no land in sight.  

Mark- Yer not laughing now are you you cunt?

Johnny- What this is nothing. I’d swim it if I didn’t have a backpack.

There’s a welcoming party on the shore. More fishermen. Johnny steps out into the water, grabs the two bags and walks ashore. The log slides ashore beside him and Mark alites.

Mark-That wasn’t so bad.

Thai Fisherman- 500Bhat.

Johnny/Mark-Fuck off!

Thai Fisherman- 500 Bhat.

Johnny- You said 300, I’ll pay you 300. I was gonna give you a tip but you’re been a prick.

Thai Fisherman- 500

The rest of the fishermen close in. Some have knives, in truth; they look like a midget band of pirates from a bygone era.

Thai Fisherman- 500 Bhat!

Mark- Look out John…

A swift kick in the nuts and the Fisherman’s on his knees in the surf.

Johnny- Oh fucking hell, you stupid cunt. The bags! The bags!

Mark doesn’t give a fuck; he’s alive now, in his element, doing something stupid and loving it. He’s off down the beach with a half dozen Thais in tow. Johnny’s doing the same but he’s got two fully loaded, round the fucking world backpacks dragging him down.

Mark- Come on you slow fuck keep up.

Johnny- For fuck’s sake, why’d you do that?

Mark- 200 Bhat how much is that in real money?

Johnny- Fuck off yer little cunt.

The Thais have got blades drawn but won’t get too close. Johnny, drunkenly kicks out at them but misses and nearly falls over. Mark’s weaving in and out like a 10 year old playing tag in the school yard. He can run. Oh yes the boy can run. Ran cross country for the city as a teen. He can run.

Mark- Come on yer little fuckers!

He’s running at them, arms out stretched like a dive bomber. Laughing, laughing, laughing. Johnny is soaked and struggling with two wet rucksacks and a pack of Thais around him. Hyenas waiting for him to fall.

Johnny-I’m gonna fucking kill you myself yer fucking clown.

Mark runs by again, laughing, laughing, laughing. Johnny turns ‘round and a wave hits one of the bags and drags him under, into the surf.

Thai Fisherman- 500 Bhat!!!

Johnny crumples a 500 Bhat note up, makes to throw it at the Thai, then turns and throws it out to sea.

Johnny-  500 Bhat yer cunt.

Mark helps him up, the two friends laughing and ragging each other under the water as the Thais fish out the money. The Fishermen wade back on to the beach, muttering threats as they go. Johnny and Mark sit soaked on the beach beside two equally soaked back packs.

Mark- Oi! Hey! Hey you, Captain Pugwash. You know where we can get a room for the night?

JL

Christmas 1990

I'm out the door at 7 pm, the family are blissfully asleep in a haze of QC, Turkey sarnies and 2nd hand sprout fumes. Waiting for the Christmas specials to come on the telly. I'm picked up by Batesy in his shed of a mini, in the back there's Merchant and Cooper. Fuck me this is going to be a messy head fuck of a night. Those two are the North Leeds equivalent of the Good Doctor and his Attorney, experts in the art of getting fucked on anything they can get there hands on. Tonights menu consists of a quarter of Double zero and a healthy sheet of purple ohms. Merch is chuckling to himself as he has a shallow fruit box on his knee with a box of red large rizzla packets. "Merry Xmas cuz, tonights the night we roll the camberwell carrot"

Down to Scottish Steve's we go. Merry fucking Xmas a house party in Gipton awaits. All the wreck heads are there; Saddler, Steve, Little Chris, Batesy, Merch and Cooper (they come as a pair), Tris, Barty and Mad Daz. Daz had an incident with red windowpanes which ended up with him running down Scott Hall Road bollock naked pursued by 6 coppers hence the mad moniker. Suffice to say he's not that interested in the consumption of tabs and to be honest we agree with him. Fucked if I want to see him fighting naked with coppers anytime again in the near or distant future.

Needless to say Scottish Steve is hammered but is as always the genial host. A total gent and a lovely easy going slight fella he had some gruesome scars and even more gruesome tales of growing up in some shit hole in Glasgow. Gipton for him was like Beverley Hills.

The tunes are banging out, we're all arguing over the cd player but eventually Merch focuses our attention on the construction of the biggest spliff ever built this side of Camberwell. 6 of us are furiously sticking papers together while Merch empties the contents of 20 Regal into a bowl whilst burning and crumbling the beige powdery gear.

The acid is kicking in......

Anon.

The Beginner

You’re fat, she told him. Look at you, she said, it’s hanging over your belt. Fatty Boomsticks, she said. He turned side on and looked at himself in the wardrobe mirror. I’m not that bad, he said. Fatty Boomsticks? That’s a bit much. He sucked his gut in, held it there, breathed out slowly. He felt his stomach push back against his belt. He adjusted it around his waist, pulled it further down so it sat on his hips. He could feel the buckle digging into his flesh. She was right. He had let himself go. I’m forty-three, he said. It’s only natural. Your metabolism slows down. Do you know what you should do, she said. You should get a bike. Conrad has got a bike. A racer. He goes out with a load of others. Him and his mates. Every Sunday. They’ve all got bikes. They ride all over, all over the countryside. They go on the Wolds. Eighty miles he did one day, she said. Conrad was Abi’s husband. Abi was her friend. They went for drinks on the last Friday of every month, Abi and Debs and a few other women from the office where they worked. Tonight was one of those nights. She was running a hair dryer around the back of her head, sat cross legged on the bedroom floor in her dressing gown, a towel around her shoulders, her going out clothes hung up on the back of the door. Her new going out clothes that she’d brought back from town that afternoon. You’re right, he said. I should do something about it. Get back into the gym. Get on the treadmill. She pulled a face. You won’t though, she said. You say you will, but you won’t. What time do you reckon you’ll be back? he asked. Don’t know, she said. Not late. She kissed him lightly on the cheek. He could smell her perfume, heavy and sweet. It clung to her hair and her clothes. Have a nice time, he said. I will, she said.

   Simon heated up ready-made lasagna in the microwave. He ate half of it and then left it on the table. He went back upstairs and took off his shirt and jeans and socks. He stood in front of the mirror again in his boxer shorts. His belly sagged. His man tits sagged. He got down on the floor and lay on his back, clasped his hands behind his head and pulled himself upright. He leant forwards and tried to touch his toes. It was harder than he thought it would be. He lifted his legs and tried again, tried to touch his knees with his forehead. That was a little easier, but not much. He could feel the folds of flab concertina around his mid riff. He managed four sit-ups before he felt out of breath. There was a pain across his shoulders and a thin film of sweat on his chest. He could hear his own breathing. He lay flat on the floor for a while and stared up at the ceiling. He could see a spider web in the corner of the room near the wardrobe. He lay there for a while before sitting back upright and pushing himself up from the floor. He sprayed Lynx under his arms and around his body before getting dressed again and going downstairs.

   He watched TV and drank beer. He watched Britain’s Got Talent then turned over to watch a documentary about polar bears in the Antarctic. Then he watched Top of The Pops 1977. He worked his way through five cans of beer. He fell asleep on the settee and did not hear her key turn the lock or her stocking feet tiptoe along the hallway and up the stairs.

The shop was small and the bikes were hung in rows on either side. The man was small and wiry. He wore a tight dark blue top zipped to the throat and shiny black shorts that looked as though they’d been sprayed onto his legs. His calf muscles stood out like slabs of rock. He was very helpful. He pointed out the different models and explained their capabilities and limitations. He explained the gear systems and wheel types and the different types of terrains they were each suited to. Simon was impressed with his knowledge. I never knew there was so much to it, he told the man. I thought a bike was just a bike, he said. The man laughed. You can get a bit obsessed about it all, said the man. It can get like an illness. I just want a standard one, said Simon. A beginner’s bike. Nothing too ambitious. The man rubbed his chin, thought about it. Then he pointed out a dark green racer above their heads. He fetched a small stepladder and climbed up to the bike, unhooked it from it’s fastening and passed it down. It was heavier than Simon had expected. The way the man had handled it one with one hand, Simon had expected it to be as light as a feather, but the weight of it surprised him and he had to quickly use both hands to stop it dropping. Even so, the tyres bounced on the floor and the bell gave a ding. The man stepped down from the ladder and held the bike by the handlebars, invited Simon to sit upon it. Try that for size, he said. That’s a twenty-inch. Simon hitched up his jeans and swung his leg over. He balanced himself on the saddle and gripped the handlebars. His toes barely touched the floor on either side and for one brief second he panicked, thought he was going to tumble over and send all the other machines crashing. He let go with one hand and grabbed the man’s shoulder. Woah, he said. He laughed. Nearly went there, he said. I haven’t ridden a bike since I was at school. Not since I had a paper round. You’re OK, said the man. Simon let go of his shoulder and grabbed the handlebar, shifted his weight from side to side, his toes pushing off the floor, left to right, left to right. He swayed from side to side. That’s fine, said the man. You could maybe even do to have that seat raised a touch. Raised? said Simon. I don’t want it any higher, surely? I’ll fall off! You won’t fall off, said the man. You’ll be fine. Simon turned one of the pedals backwards with the top of his foot, his other foot planted on the floor.

   How does it feel? Asked the man.

   It feels fine, said Simon. 

Russ L

I suspect she's covered in moles.  I can see one on her neck and she never wears anything revealing.  It now extends beyond idle curiousity. 

So when I find out she's moving to Bedfordshire in a fortnight, I go out of my way to fuck her before she leaves. 

There are a few more moles, but not as many as I'd imagined.  There’s a small one on her back and what you might unkindly describe as a matching twin set, just below what they refer to as the bikini line.  Or just above her cunt, if you're me. 

The act itself is a waste of time.  Her flat's cold and she's got a hamster, or something else small and furry in a cage and you can hear it scratting.  The radio gets left on and it isn't my kind of music, or my kind of presenter, but then none of them are. 

She's dry and grimy and her tits don't look anything like as good without back up.  Even though there are no moles on them. 

The bedroom is full of odd-sized boxes and the carpet’s stained.  They're not the stains of other people though.  No way.

Martin C.

Ho, ho, ho fuck, is that all?

It’s that time of year again, Christmas, Hanukah, we’ve even got a black guy on the over nights celebrates Kwanza! What’s that all about then? I should ask him but fuck it, I don’t care enough to chat with him on my own time. We never work together, I’m on steady days, he’s on steady nights, why would I talk to him, to anyone here, if I’m not getting paid? The porters have put the lights up, and the tree, and the Hanukah thing, we don’t have anything to do with Kwanza yet but it’s early days, it’s only the second of December. The guys running the elevators all have their lists ready, last year’s lists out, the real one and the one they took home to the wife, checking off their Christmas tips. I never know if you should call them Christmas tips or not. I mean, us, the guys who work in the building we’re mostly Catholic, mostly lapsed, but the tenants, the ones who give us the tips, are nearly all Jews. Blood Money’s what I call it. It’s barely a gratuity; it’s more a bribe, something to hold over you. You don’t take care of me during the year; I’ll fuck you in December! Most give $100s. What’s that, less than $2s a week? Of course there’s some good ones, nice people who genuinely appear to appreciate the job we do (you think it’s easy been a doorman? This is not a quiet building my friend. I’ve gone up a size and two widths in shoes since I started here). I get $500 from the family in 4C, the old woman in 16A she gives me $1000, I hear Jimmy gets $2000 but he walks her dog on his lunch break every day. Hector says he gets $1500 from 7C. Most of the guys say he’s banging the wife when the old fella’s out of town. Fair play, I’d fuck her for free! I used to get big bucks from 19B. That all stopped after he got a ticket when I was meant to be watching his car. Hey, the meter maid was a bitch and he was on the hydrant. What you gonna do? There’s 3A, she gives $5s. Paddy burned it once. We had a camera, took photos. He thought it was funny ‘til he fell out with Hector who threatened to go to The Feds. He had Paddy great, told him it was a Capital offense to burn U.S. currency. Paddy’s not the sharpest. I got an envelope that rattled my first year here, I won’t tell you who from. I stapled a $20 to it and slid it under their door after drinking half a bottle of blackberry brandy on a double shift. Not the smartest thing I ever did. They wanted me fired but the Super’s a good guy, talked them out of it. I avoid them these days. Fuck that's the husband pulling up now...

JL